Lose Your Head
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ FrUk Oneshots ]] France's face swam in front of England's eyes. "Eloquent as always. I see your complexion hadn't improved any, nor your eyebrows. They said they found you in a ditch, which probably didn't help things."
1. Cheap Paint

Something was downstairs. Francis heard it digging around, letting out a low growl. As he crept down the stairs, baseball bat in hand, Francis wondered if this was how he would die: vaguely hungover and in his satin night robe.

The painting over the fireplace—which, from a distance, was romantic—had a large gash in it. Not a rip, not a tear, but a gash, as if some great beast had looked at Francis' taste in art and gone _no_. The various vases scattered tastefully around were left intact. Someone, some _thing_ had turned on the light.

Francis edged through his living room, heart in his ears. It was in the kitchen. It hadn't been so kind as to turn on the light there. There was the sound of something glass tinkling, a click of claws against the tile, another low growl. Francis tightened his grip on the bat.

A dog's head popped out of the dark. It looked at him, green eyes blinking. It took Francis a moment to realize that this dog was larger than a Saint Bernard. Bigger than anything Francis had ever seen.

He stared at it. The dog's nose twitched. Then, it _looked_ at the painting. Francis knew that's what it was looking at, but he was too terrified to check over his shoulder. The dog shook its head, then withdrew into the dark of the kitchen.

The back door opened. Francis felt the chill of the night air. The back door shut.

"A dog opened your door?"

Francis tapped his fingers against the counter he was leaning on, his casual pose doing nothing to hide the slightly manic look on his face. His hair was tied back, a few strands carefully left loose. His button-up was ironed and white, shoes polished to a gleam.

Francis was trying very hard not to freak out.

"It wasn't a dog," Francis tried again. "I wouldn't have called if it was a dog. It was—it made a cup of tea."

Animal control had been sympathetic enough on the phone at three in the morning, but in the sobering light of day, the man who had come over was mocking him.

Had Francis not been fearful of another late night visit, he would have flirted with the other man. Sandy hair, fascinatingly green eyes, a scowl that wanted to turn upwards. The man looked around the kitchen again. He had introduced himself as Arthur.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?"

Arthur turned sharply. "No. Any dog doors, trashcans left outside the door? No? Well, dogs don't usually break into homes. Are you sure you shut the door…?"

Francis followed Arthur as he wandered through his house. Even though his eyes were on the windows—searching for a mythical gaping hole the dog had squeezed through—Arthur moved around the coffee tables with a practiced ease.

Who was this man? Francis almost remembered. It balanced on the tip of his tongue.

And then Arthur glanced at the painting, and the slight shake of his head hit Francis like a sledge hammer.

"It was your dog!" Francis stumbled away, back of his legs hitting a couch. He sat down, staring at Arthur in horror. "It was—your eyes!" He looked at his shaking hands. "What do you have against that painting?" he asked softly in French.

Arthur had taken a step closer, but had frozen mid-stride. "I—of course it wasn't my dog!"

Francis looked at him. "It was!"

Arthur gave him a funny. "No, it wasn't."

Maybe Francis really was going crazy. Accusing men of being dogs, owning dogs that could make tea. Francis let out a shaky breath, standing and waving his hands like he was dismissing the whole conversation.

"Ah, pardon me. I did not have the best rest. Sorry for making you drive all the way out here, really. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?" Francis led the way back to the kitchen, smiling over his shoulder.

"The oolong, please."

Francis' hands lingered on the pantry's handle. "How did you know I had oolong?"

There was a pause, and Francis looked over his shoulder. Arthur was staring at his feet like they had offended his mother. His fists were clenched, and his eyes flicked up to meet Francis' before returning. Francis opened his mouth to apologize, to say most people had oolong.

"I'm sorry for breaking into your house and drinking your tea."

Francis played the words over in his head. He even translated them into French and back again, just to make sure he had heard right. His instincts kicked in and he laughed, shaking his head.

"That's very—"

"I'm serious."

"But…" Francis cleared his throat and turned around, leaning against the counter. "You're not very… Furry. "

"I'm a werewolf," Arthur said, meeting Francis' gaze.

"You can make tea?"


	2. Lose Your Head

**Inspired by jam-art ( on Tumblr's ) art! See it at ( jam-art . tumblr . cerm /post/95105520318/kiss-art-challenge-5-fruk-kiss-on-the-neck )**

 **Replace "cerm" with "com."**

* * *

England's smile became tight when the man pulled out the sword. He suddenly felt a little more apprehensive, hands tied behind him, on his knees, with the man swinging around the sword.

"A _sword_?" he scoffed, trying to ignore the other man breathing down his neck. "What are you, a barbarian?"

The man didn't speak English, because he was a barbarian. Because he was waving around a sword and didn't have a proper gun. The crowd surged around them, jeering. England still didn't believe they had recognized him.

"You do not need to do this," England said, loud and slow.

"I think," the man with the sword said, smile as sharp as his blade, "you find I _do_."

"You speak English?" he asked, blinking. "Well, in that case, perhaps we can—"

The sword flicked to England's throat, and the man observed him. "I know what you are."

England was suddenly very aware of the other people around them. His soldier—his escort, a young fellow—had been dragged away to God's know where. He wouldn't have mentioned to anyone who England was.

England felt sweat forming on his brow, drip down his neck.

"I'm someone who can make your life very uncomfortable," England said.

"Only if you have a head."

England's lip curled. "Are you suggesting you're going to behead me? That wouldn't stop my men, you know. That wouldn't solve anything. It would only incite further violence." Maybe he had used vocabulary too advanced—

"It would solve something." The man crouched down in front of England. "You forget I know all about you. What you are…" He drew out the words, playfully, like England was a toddler. "I know what you do… I know you can survive a gunshot…"

The crowd still must be making noise, must be still causing a ruckus for his boys, but all England could hear was this man's voice. But this man looked like all the others, sword resting in his knees as he observed England.

"Perhaps," England said, slowly, but not because this man couldn't understand, "we can make a deal."

"Get out of my country?" the man suggested brightly.

"I'm thinking something more short term."

The man shook his head, tutting. "Nope! What is it you have people call you? Arthur? I know people like you, Ar _thur_. People like you take, take, take. You dig a tunnel and don't expect it to collapse down on your head."

The tip of the sword tapped England on the head.

"But," the man whispered, leaning closer, "I know a secret. I might be able to shoot you in the head, but I know you'll wake up. But what if…" He gave another wicked grin. "You just don't _have_ a head?"

He was slow close to England's face, he could have spat in his eye. He fucking wanted to.

England lunged forward, attempting to smash into the man. This petty, worthless—England was hauled back by someone in the crowd by the collar of his uniform—this petty, worthless little human who had the _audacity_ to insult him.

"Fuck," England snarled, twisting, attempting to free his hands or his short or something, anything.

"So civilized," the man sneered.

And suddenly England himself grow cold as the man stood up, fear cold and clear like a bucket of water over his head. England tried to struggle away.

"No, you don't have to do this, no!" England jerked, but was held in place by countless hands, bent down on his knees, forced to stare at the dirt. "Get _off_ —"

The sword must have been dull. It slapped against England's neck, didn't cut all the way through, crooked. For a second, England thought he was fine, until he took a breath and inhaled something wet.

 **…**

A vague sort of darkness, half surfacing, sounds. Feet on stone. Horses. Blackness, murmuring. Gunshot, sharp through.

 **…**

French.

"Of course, I told her that while I appreciated her opinion on my parlor, it wasn't needed. My eye for color is perfect. There is this artist—you would absolutely hate him—who had talked to me on numerous affairs regarding color theory—"

"Fuck," England rasped.

France's face swam in front of his eyes. "Eloquent as always. I see your complexion hadn't improved any, nor your eyebrows. They said they found you in a ditch, which probably didn't help things."

"If you're going to speak your language, for the love of God, please speak slower."

France laughed. England focused on trying to pick out where he was. In a bed, and a small part of him was happy. He was warm, and safe, and alive. Alive. God. He felt like a horse had kicked him in the head, but he was alive.

"They wrote me, you know," France said, sitting on the bed. "They tracked me down and gave me this letter, signed and sealed from the king himself, asking what to do with your body. I suggested they sew your head back on."

England wanted to laugh, but his throat was dry. "Worked."

"Well, I am brilliant, aren't I?"

A fire. England turned his head, blinked at the room. A fire. It was winter. He wondered if he was home.

"Where are we?"

France hummed, and it took England a second to realize he was running his fingers over the bandages on his neck.

"Some charming little castle in the rainiest part of your country."

"What are you doing here?"

The hand retracted, and France pouted. "Do you not want me here? I sailed all the way across our silly little channel to visit, rode for a solid day on horseback, put up with your—"

"Slow, please, my head is aching."

France made an offended noise at the back of his throat.

England sighed, let his eyelids flutter shut. "I would murder for a cup of tea."

"Well, I assume you _are_ going to go on a murdering spree."

The room suddenly focused, and England sat up, all ears. His whole body complained, but he didn't care right now. God knows how long he had been in that ditch. Maybe he had started to rot.

"Why?"

France adjusted the sleeve of his outfit—something pompous and too bright for the gloom. "They might not have caught the man who was responsible for…" He circled England's head with his finger. "This."

"They _what_?!"

"It was a very troublesome riot," France said, slowly, unsure of his words.

England tumbled out of his bed. His legs felt like jelly, felt like they were someone else's. France sprang up and grabbed his arm, supported him.

"That bloody fucker cut my head off and they _didn't catch him_?!"


	3. Queue--Line (FACE Family)

**Anonymous said:** "we took our kids to santa's workshop and they both wished we would get together" FrUK ;)

* * *

"No."

Alfred gaped at him. "Oh, _what_?! We can't go to the mall and _not_ see Santa! Dad. Dad. _Dad_." Alfred tried a different tactic. "Francis. Matt. _Come on_. It's freakin' _Santa_! Santa!"

Francis smiled, and Arthur saw him squeeze Matthew's hand. Arthur was already thinking of escape routes, and he tried to drag Alfred past the line, but the little bugger dug his heels in and pulled back.

"Come now, Arthur," Francis chided, accent becoming thicker. "Surely we can let the boys—"

" _No_." Arthur adjusted his tone. "Francis," he began, calmer, "it's going to be expensive. It's one of those package—packaged _nonsense_. Look." Arthur pointed with the hand holding Alfred's. "You can't just talk to the man; you have to get a picture that costs _at least_ twenty dollars. And we—there are two."

Alfred tugged against his hand like a dog on a leash. " _Dad_ ," he drew out the word. "It's Santa. Santa!"

Francis gave him a look, and Arthur glanced away. Arthur wouldn't break. Not over this. Not when he had already bought pretzels, an ice cream, and a new Xbox game. Santa was the final straw.

Francis swung his and Matthew's hands. Arthur focused on that and not the puppy-dog eyes.

"Where is your Christmas spirit?" Francis caught his eyes and smiled. "I am sure it will not be that much. Come now. How often does Santa visit the mall?"

Alfred nodded, furiously. " _Seriously_!"

Francis looked at Matthew. "What do you think, my bear?" he asked in French.

Matthew nodded, slowly.

Francis grinned at Arthur. "I promise, we will have fun. There is nothing better than pictures to cherish for the rest of our lives."

Arthur sighed and released Alfred's hand. The boy scampered into line, dragging Matthew behind him. Alfred loudly announced that this was their place in line, and for Arthur and Francis to hurry up.

Francis laughed and wrapped an easy arm around Arthur. "Don't worry," he said softly, "you can sit on my knee when the kids go to bed."

Arthur shrugged off Francis' arm, but couldn't stop the smile. Francis laughed again.

Of course, they were the last people to join the line. It stretched past the dividers to form the queue—line, Arthur amended. There were probably ten other families waiting, and each one spent ages ordering their children to look at the camera.

"I bloody hate Christmas," Arthur breathed.

"Is that why you have been so grumpy?" Francis was still smiling that smile, and Arthur couldn't muster up the will to scold him. "Why, darling?"

"Because it's—well." Arthur waved a hand at the surrounding display of fake snow and middle-aged elves. "Truly a winter wonderland." He rolled his eyes. "And Alfred wants absolutely everything, and I practically have to take out a second mortgage on my house to afford the newest gaming system."

Arthur realized he was ranting and snapped his mouth shut.

Francis digested this, then gave a small shrug. "I have always liked Christmas."

Arthur nodded. "Yes. Well. What—what do you like about it?"

"Ah." Francis searched for the words. "Family. Giving. It is a nice time of the year. People actually try to care for one another. They celebrate the end of one year and the beginning of another." A woman dragged her screaming child by. "It is fun."

Arthur stood on his toes to see over heads and checked the line. "Family," he repeated.

"Not the same warm memories?" Francis asked.

Arthur's head whipped around. "I—well. No, not particularly. My brothers and I didn't get along, and they would all come back for the holiday." Arthur checked his watch. "We're going to be here for hours unless—"

"Dad." Alfred hung off Arthur's arm. "Dad, it's taking forever. Dad."

"You should be thankful Santa is even here," Arthur said. "He's a busy man. He doesn't have time to talk to every child, but here he is, taking time out of his busy schedule to listen to you."

Francis chuckled. "Arthur is right, Alfred. But..." He gave Arthur a look. "Maybe we can cut," he whispered.

Alfred's face brightened.

"Papa," Matthew disagreed.

"Francis," Arthur said, sharply. "We can't just jump in front of all these people. That's an awful idea."

"Dad, come on! It's taking forever." Alfred was already plotting, Arthur could see it. "I'll distract—"

" _No_." Arthur grabbed the back of Alfred's hoodie, just in case. "That is how children get lumps of coal."

Alfred pouted. "But you were, like, just complaining about waiting in line."

"Yes, well, I didn't even want to wait in line. I wanted to—"

"Welcome to the North Pole!" Arthur faced a preppy college girl. Her smile was strained. "Looks like you folks are next! What picture package do we want?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the pricing chart. "None."

The girl's smile didn't falter. "Are we sure? We don't allow for private photography."

"That's fine."

The girl nodded. "That means no pictures on your phones."

Arthur closed his eyes, and Francis stepped in, smooth and steady.

"Thank you," he said. "The kids just want to tell Santa what they want. We can keep it in our memories. And between you and me, Arthur does not have a phone that can take quality pictures, anyways."

The girl's smile seemed a little softer; Arthur looked away.

"Well, kids, Santa is ready to see you."

She stepped out of the way, and Alfred rushed forward. He practically threw himself into the Santa's lap. Matthew hung back until Francis gave him a light nudge forward. He stood a few feet away, but the Santa didn't seem to mind.

"Well, what do—"

"I want Francis to move in with us," Alfred said loudly. "He's the best. He lets me stay up late, and play games for longer than two hours, and that kid, there, his name is Mattie, and he's smart, and helps me on homework. But Francis is—"

" _Alfred_!" Arthur took a step forward, knew he must be blushing like mad. "Alfred, that is inappropriate! Honestly, Francis' and my relationship is of none of your business. Nor should you discuss it with strangers." Arthur dragged Alfred away. "I'm terribly sorry—"

Matthew trailed after Arthur. Francis was laughing.

Matthew walked next to Arthur. "I would like that, too."

Arthur blinked. "Did you two plan this?"

Alfred scoffed. "Dad, there's—"

Francis captured Arthur's hand in his own. "I might have had something to do with it."

" _Francis_."

Alfred tugged on Arthur's other hand. "It's a good idea!"

"You two are going to be the death of me."


End file.
